


Choppers!

by HamishHolmes



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 12:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamishHolmes/pseuds/HamishHolmes
Summary: Hearing the sound of a helicopter still sends our boys into a tailspin.





	Choppers!

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the post: https://war-is-hell.tumblr.com/post/162712481570/i-have-this-theory-that-after-all-the-mash

It had been a long time since anyone had called Walter O’Reilly ‘Radar’. Back home, being able to predict what was going to happen next or what someone was going to say before they said it was just what Edna’s boy did, nothing new, nothing special. But he still thought of himself as Radar. And a nickname wasn’t the only thing that he’d brought back from the war. 

Backfiring trucks still sent him diving for a table; Boston accents made him leap to his feet; and both he and Park Sung sat shivering together on the fourth of July.

But life goes on.

It was a Wednesday, and they were driving into the actual city of Ottumwa from the farm out in the county in the O’Reilly’s old, blue pick-up truck. Park Sung was practicing his English by reading aloud from a manual for their tractor, one hand absentmindedly rubbing the farm dog’s head.

Radar glanced down at the dog, and then returned his gaze to the road, though his mind was no longer on his driving. His last farm dog had died shortly after he returned from the war, and he was still missing the 4077th when he had found them a new dog.

He didn’t miss the place, but the people. Not as they were during surgery, white surgical gowns made unwilling canvases by the blood of dying men, nor as they were sometimes, hollow-eyed ghosts distorted through the curves of a martini glass. But how they were when they found their spark of passion again for a brief moment, when BJ talked about his family, or Hawkeye about Maine. When Colonel Potter rode Sophie or Major Houlihan laughed her real laugh.

So, for the first few days, he had called the little puppy Mash, but when he introduced the dog to one of his old school friends, who had popped round to see him, he laughed so hard, that Radar knew he would always feel stupid calling it across the fields, so he changed it to Benny. After all, with it sounding a little bit like BJ and being a part of Hawkeye’s name, it was the perfect reminder of his friends.

For a moment, he was drawn back into the present as Park Sung asked him a question about the manual. He answered it as well as he could, though he wasn’t completely sure that he was right, but then almost immediately, his mind drifted back to the night before.

Waking, sweating, from a dream of faces drenched in blood and screams of his name torn from dying lips, he hang flung himself out of bed, onto the floor, and pressed his back against the solid oak chest of drawers in the corner. Anything to remind himself that this was real.

Benny had lolloped over to him from his dog bed in the corner of the room. Radar had put the bed in the kitchen at first, but, after the first three nights of his nightmares bringing Benny racing up the stairs from the kitchen to paw pitifully at the door for a while until Radar could summon the energy to move and let him in, he simply moved the bed into his room. On his lap, Benny licked softly at Radar’s hand, and Radar talked. He talked about the past and about his friends and about himself, until he fell asleep, still sitting on the floor, his dog by his side.

They had come into the city to get a couple of new parts for the tractor and some dresses for his mother, which made him smile at the memory of Klinger, as dresses always did, but they decided that they would take their time over it. They started to stroll comfortably across the car park, heading for the mechanics and chatting to each other about their plans for the new field that they had just acquired. The farm was doing much better with Park Sung’s help, and they had reached the point where they, for the most part, did administrative work, leaving the manual labour to farm hands, though of course, Park Sung still loved to get his own boots on the fields.

About halfway to the road into town, a young man climbed out of his car, and called out to Radar.

“Walter! Is that you?”

“Jamie!” shouted Radar back, delighted to see his old friend who had moved to the city after he had sold his father’s farm to buy a diner, “jee, it’s been too long.”

“Yeah, but you were the one who went off to join the war,” laughed Jamie, coming forward to give him a hug, “and you brought someone back with you?”

“Oh, yeah, this is Park Sung. He’s really good at farming, so he’s a real help over here.” 

“That’s good stuff, Walter. How have you been?”

But Radar didn’t hear the question. The air around him shifted and there was a sound that he knew the others hadn’t heard yet.

“CHOPPERS!”

He raced across the car park to the pick-up, leaping into it and turning on the engine, ready to drive up to the chopper pad and bring the casualties back down to the OR. Then, the panic cleared, and he cut the engine, still breathing heavily. This wasn’t Korea. No one needed him. He tipped his head back, screwing his eyes closed and then got back out of the car, shaking out his limbs and moving back over to where Jamie and Park were still stood, staring after him. Cool air filled his lungs again and he could taste the Iowa tang in it, none of the dust that clouded the Korean air.

“Sorry. Where were we?”

**

Dr BJ Hunnicutt was having fun. Well, he was happy, and after this time in Korea, he counted those as basically the same most days. Sitting on the grass, legs kicked out in front of him, with Peg by his side, watching Erin running around, chasing the dog, he smiled. Peg leaned into his shoulder, pressing her face against his skin and taking a deep breath.

“Did I ever tell you that I love you?” she asked, pressing a kiss to his neck and smiling there.

“Oh, only once or twice,” said BJ, grinning, “how often do you think it?”

“Almost every waking moment,” said Peg, “and some of the sleeping ones too.”

“Me too. I love you Peg.”

They were interrupted at their saccharin speech by Erin tearing over and flinging herself down onto their laps.

“Daddy,” she said, looking up at him, “do you want to come play with me?”

“Absolutely I do,” he said, leaning down to pepper her face with tiny kisses, “but I think that your Mum might want you to sit and have some lunch before we do.”

“Okay,” said Erin, sitting up and looking at the picnic that Peg had spread out on the blanket, “can I start?”

“Of course, Sweetie,” said Peg, kissing her forehead and handing her a plate, “you get started.”

BJ was about to accept a plate from his wife when he heard it. The drone of chopper blades cut through the peaceful atmosphere and his back tensed. Usually nimble fingers fumbled with the plate and it fell limply against his legs, where he let it lay. Biting down hard on nothing he fought against the gale of images which swirled around in the disturbed air. The sight of young boys, bellies ripped open, limbs holding on by a thread. The sound of gunfire that came from somewhere nearby, sending him jittering in his place. And even imagined horrors: Hawkeye’s pale, cold face, devoid of laughter or exhaustion; Potter giving them the news about the ever-moving goalposts of the rotation points; blood drenching his hands, covering his hair, his face.

“Hey, BJ,” said Peg, one hand taking both of his and her thumb running over the back of them, “you’re in California. We’re sitting in the park. You’re safe.”

He took a few deep breaths and let the calm air that she radiated and the happy chattering from his daughter wash over him, soothing away the vestiges of the nightmares that stained his soul black.

“Okay,” he whispered, “can I take her to play? I know she hasn’t eaten much, but I just…”

“Yes, go,” said Peg, “take her. Hold her. I’ll fetch you back for lunch in a little bit.”

She kissed his cheek, rubbed her hand up his arm and moved so he could stand up. He moved the plate off Erin’s lap and swung her up into her arms, her merry laughter reverberating through his arms and chest. Dropping her back to the ground, he tore off after her as she raced away, running just slowly enough that he couldn’t catch her. Every so often, he would surge forwards and get his hands just on her shoulders before she squealed and tore away again.

Each peal of laughter, each unsteady footstep, each time Peg called their names mirth evident in her voice forced the sound of the chopper’s throbbing blades out of his head.

**

Hawkeye stretched his back as he moved to put his fishing rod in the back of his truck, next to his tackle box and his wellington boots, having switched back into a pair of comfortable trainers to drive back to the house. There was a softness in the air, and even though he hadn’t caught anything that he hadn’t thrown back, he felt that the day that he had spent there, unafraid of his surroundings, had been worth every second. 

Tomorrow, he would head out to play golf on his local course. In some ways, there was a feeling of nostalgia that came with fishing, with playing golf. Each time the smooth material between his palms reminded him of firing balls out into the mine field where they occasionally set off one of the explosives. Each time he tied a fly onto the end of his line, he heard the voice of a man giving him sage advice on fishing and bad advice on surviving in the army.

He tugged on his sweater and moved around to get into the front seat of his car, still almost lost in the sepia wilderness of his memories, but he didn’t make it there. Somewhere, out towards the ocean, he could see a small dot, moving with purpose back towards the shore. The rhythmic churning of the air around him throbbed with his suddenly racing heartbeat.

Yanking the sweater back off again, throwing it into the back of the pick-up, next to his fishing gear, he found himself rolling his shirt sleeves back to expose his forearms. Reaching into the doctor’s bag that he always kept on the passenger seat of his truck and pulled out the alcohol wipes that were at the bottom, wiping down his forearms and hands.

Chest cases.

He was looking for chest cases, or anything that looked hard enough to need two surgeons.

The chopper passed directly overhead, and Hawkeye looked up to see the coastguard colours on the machine, rather than the awful green that he had expected. When that realisation hit him, he noticed all the other differences. All around him was lush green grass, dotted with tiny flowers which stretched all the way into the water of the creek, where sunlight danced. The sky over head, though clear of clouds, was the wrong shade of blue.

The clearest absence though was the people.

He sank to the floor, back against the door of his truck and looked across at the empty space where the compound was only minutes ago. Frantic eyes searched the meadow for bloodied soldiers, as if he could rip through the façade of Maine’s landscape and find himself once more in the hell hole that he wished he could escape.  
Desperate hands forced his head down, until he could feel the burning sensation in his back and neck that was already in his head and his chest. He let the buzzing sting fill him completely until his fingers stopped clutching for a scalpel, until the raw feeling in the back of his throat stopped begging him to call for litters, or retractors, or help. 

When he raised his head again, he brushed away the tears that still clung to his cheeks. And then he got into his truck, drove home, got into bed and pulled the covers over his head.


End file.
